


Mobius

by Sablesilverrain



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Don't copy to other sites, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Obsession, Older Harry Potter, Possessive Voldemort (Harry Potter), Pureblood Customs, Tom believed to be a Muggleborn, Tomarry and Harrymort, Younger Tom Riddle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2020-09-28 09:04:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20423402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sablesilverrain/pseuds/Sablesilverrain
Summary: Based off of "The Explosion" by Orphan_Account with very few changes at first. Will take a drastic turn when we reach the point that the last one left off.This is a time-travel fix-it turned on its ear. It will be very different than any of the others. Mostly in the fact that Tom is bullied and Harry has a different purpose in going back than to change him...





	1. Mobius

**Author's Note:**

> This will follow "The Explosion" closely--at first. I will let you know when we are getting to parts I have changed or the parts where I am picking up the dangling strings and pulling them for myself, when we get there.

Harry walked into the bar, quickly scanning the room for Neville. He was nowhere to be seen. Apparently, he had gone out the back way.

Harry headed that way, and a man grabbed his arm. “How old are you?” He demanded. Harry assumed he worked there and wanted to throw him out, since he was underage. He gave the man a once-over, taking in his fine clothing, blond hair, artfully missed, and striking blue eyes. He didn’t look like a bartender. He was attractive, but still…

“Who wants to know?” He asked, noting that the man looked angry that Harry had checked him out. He was probably homophobic.

“Marvolo.” The man answered.

Harry tensed for a second, then remembered that he didn’t look like himself. His clothing had been altered to look like the finest Pureblood clothing, while still in Gryffindor red, a stark contrast to this man’s Slytherin green and black. He had also charmed his hair to be straight and soft, falling into his eyes a bit, but still very fashionable, and his eyes were charmed brighter by a few shades.

Harry's eyes narrowed and he regarded the man with suspicion. “That name, as far as I know, is associated with Voldemort.” He said flatly. He wasn’t going to trust someone that was obviously a high-ranking Death Eater and felt the need to give him a false name on top of that.

He’d never seen the man in any of his visions, but he knew he hadn’t seen _every_ Death Eater, so maybe this one had just escaped his notice. He had to be an Inner Circle member if he knew Voldemort’s middle name.

Harry’s use of the name drew attention, which they already had, as the stranger had grabbed Harry in full view of several other patrons. There were whispers of “Dark Lord” heard from several directions.

Of course, the use of the name so brazenly had attracted attention, as had the man’s abrupt grabbing of Harry.

The man smiled. “You speak the Dark Lord’s name without fear.” He noted. “How… Fascinating.”

Harry scowled. “I’m glad you think so.” He said, removing the man’s hand from his arm by grabbing his hand. “But you’re not denying your association with Voldemort, are you?” He added.

More gasps were heard as he continued to mention him by name.

The man merely smiled wider. “Yes, very fascinating.” He murmured seemingly to himself. Then he pierced Harry with a keen stare. “Your age?” He repeated.

Harry scowled. “Why should I tell _you_ that?” He asked.

The man frowned. “My reasons for asking all depend on your answer. If it is satisfactory, I will explain to you why I must know.” He said.

Harry sighed and shook his head. “Listen, I’m looking for someone who is no longer here, and that is the only reason I came in here. So, if you will excuse me…” He bowed slightly and headed for the door, sidestepping people and moving as gracefully as he could to make it out of the bar.

Once he made it back out into the cold wind and snow, he pulled out his wand and whispered to it, “Point me Neville Longbottom.” His wand spun a few times before settling on a direction, and Harry followed the way it was pointing, sighing when he saw the building it was indicating. “Of _course_ he’s inside the strip club.” He muttered. He went in, unaware that he had been followed, as Marvolo had waited a few moments to mask his pursuit and not seem suspicious.

Harry’s distraction helped him quite a bit.

*****

Harry opened his eyes and blinked as he slowly woke fully, wondering why he was dreaming so often of the Death Eater he had met in the bar about six months ago. He had had that dream nine times, which was unusual, considering he’d suffered the loss of his Godfather more recently than that night, the images of the fight—and Voldemort—still fresh in his mind. Why wasn’t he dreaming of that instead?

He had only gone to the bar to keep Umbridge from discovering Neville’s nightly disappearances. He had needed to bring the boy back before he was found not to be there.

He put on his glasses and went downstairs to begin breakfast for his relatives, still thinking of that night.

He’d only followed Neville because he also had a habit of sneaking out at night and would have felt bad if the other boy had been discovered while Harry was able to get away with it, thanks to his cloak. He had used the map, looking for the other boy, but didn’t see him in the castle at all!

So he followed him to Hogsmeade, the only place he could have gone. He had quickly Transfigured his clothing before going out, into casual Wizarding clothing. He had also altered his looks, to blend in and not be recognizable, covering his scar with his hair and enhancing his eye colour enough to throw people off.

His wand had led him to a bar he had ignored until previously, and he peeked in and saw that it was full of haughty people, even those that were drunk, so he changed his clothes to look even more high-end and posh, black clothing and red robes to appease his inner Gryffindor, then decided to go in the back door to draw less attention. He went in and was thankful that he seemed to draw no attention at all. He scanned the crowd for Neville and paid no mind to anyone else, noticing the other teen as he made it to the other door. He was hanging off the arm of some other young man, laughing happily… And they were leaving.

‘Bloody _hell_.’ Harry had thought in irritation, then straightened his posture, adopted a more graceful and careful gait, and followed, letting his magic hover around him the way Purebloods tended to do, giving him the air of someone who had lived with it and nurtured it all his life, hoping it would be enough to deter others who might think him out of place there. He didn’t have the luxury of being able to act natural in a place like that, where he could easily find himself drawn into a duel with someone who, despite being intoxicated to some unknown degree, would still know how to do more damage than an underage wizard still in school. So he acted his ass off, and hoped he was getting away with the act.

That hadn’t been the first time he had snuck out of school, and he had even gone to places like the one he had been in. He’d kept his face calm, not quite able to manage indifferent like the rest, because he wore his heart on his sleeve and cared too much about too many things, but a calm façade, he could do. He had thought, after so much practice, he could do it quite well.

But apparently not, as the stranger had noticed him and grabbed him, drawing unwanted attention. He must have been very alert to minors, and probably worked there, though he hadn’t looked the part.

_But Neville was there,_ Harry realized, for the first time since the event had taken place. He was definitely too young to be there, and _he_ hadn’t been stopped! And Harry had taken great pains to try and blend in, to look natural. _Neville was born into Pureblood society_. Harry mused as he flipped an egg. _Maybe I did something that pointed out my lack of Pureblood education, or something. Maybe I didn’t hide my nerves well enough, or looked too tense to fit in properly._

“Hmm…” Harry frowned, but accepted the reasoning with displeasure.

“You've been in a bad mood since you started cooking.” Aunt Petunia’s displeased voice startled him. He turned and saw her sitting at the table, waiting for him to finish. “I don’t want your freakish moods poisoning my breakfast.” She added.

Harry simply turned back to the pan, saying nothing, and prepared the plates, putting two in the microwave for Vernon and Dudley whenever they finished getting ready and came down. He placed one in front of his Aunt and took his own up to his room. Petunia let him cook for himself, too, now, as long as he ate it alone in his room, and didn’t inflict his presence on the rest of them any more than necessary.

He went back to Hogwarts tomorrow, and Harry had mixed feelings about returning. It would be his sixth year, and the first one he'd have to weather without Sirius in two years. He’d grown so used to the man being there, if only on the periphery, that he wasn’t sure how he would manage without him. He also had the prophecy to worry about, and he really didn’t want to kill, though he probably would have to, from the sound of it. If he was going to kill anyone, he wanted it to be Bellatrix.

But honestly, what he really wanted was to go neutral and just know that his friends and their families would be safe.

_But that will never happen_, he thought morosely as he ate.

It was too much to hope for, and he knew it.


	2. Caution and Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like this! It's still mostly the same content, just some wording changed and a few minor details added.

Tom sat sullenly at one end of the Slytherin table, alone, while the other students of various ages sat squished together as close as they could get to the other end, to keep as much space between them and him as possible. He was in his third year, and they still treated him as if he were a leper, some disease-ridden worm so far beneath them that touching him would infect them with his _otherness_.

With his Muggle, dirty blood.

Tom kept hoping, _praying_, for another Muggle-born to be sorted Slytherin, for someone he could relate to to join his house, to make it so he wasn’t so very _alone_.

It never happened, though. He was the only Slytherin born to Muggles, the only one that was so far beneath his housemates that they shunned him, and worse, beat him nearly daily, for sport.

He was still wearing the bruises on his face and elsewhere from last night, when he had tried in vain to fight back, to prove that he could at least do that.

To no avail. He had lost, like always.

It was hard to win when nearly your whole house ganged up on you.

_If I could bring more books home over the summer, I could be strong enough when I came back to at least beat_ one of them!_ Then I’d show them. I’d be worth something. Someday, I’ll get there. I know it. Then I’ll show them all._ He promised himself.

“Silence, please.” Headmaster Dippet called from the front of the Hall. “I have a surprising, yet wonderful, announcement to make.”

Tom looked up from his as-yet-untouched meal and frowned in confusion, yet his eyes lit up with curiosity. There was a handsome boy standing beside Dippet. His hair style was especially strange, considering the fashion was to part the hair either to one side and slick it down or keep it short enough to not bother with it at all. Instead, this boy wore his slightly long, hanging literally into his eyes. He tossed his head to keep it out of his eyes. Even Tom slicked his hair down, to keep his hated curls under control. This boy, however, flouted the fashion rules most wizards followed so closely.

Headmaster Dippet wrapped an arm around the gorgeous but odd-looking boy. “This,” He said cheerfully, “Is Harlan Peverell.”

The name sounded familiar, and as whispers grew from the other people at his table, he realized why. It was a Pureblood name. His heart sank a bit, but he kept his attention on the headmaster politely.

“We have had transfer students before, of course, but this is the first time one has arrived _after_ the year has started.” Headmaster Dipped reminded everyone.

_So what?_ Tom thought bitterly. He glared at the boy. _Just another handsome, rich Pureblood with too much money, no doubt._

He was surprised when the boy looked his way suddenly, and he straightened in reflex. _Why is he looking at _me_? _Tom wondered. He looked to his side to see if someone else had scooted closer, or done something to grab the new boy's attention. But no, it seemed Harlan Peverell really _was_ looking at him.

He turned his attention back to the Headmaster and the new arrival and his heart jolted when he realized those bright eyes were still locked on him, examining him. _Noticing_ him.

Tom tried to make sense of the odd attention. _Maybe he is interested in bullying me, too. Like the rest of them. He must find it odd that a Muggleborn was sorted into a house most associated with blood purity._ Satisfied that Tom had it all figured out, he relaxed and continued watching the boy like everyone else.

“Now,” the Headmaster gestured to the stool and the sorting hat, “Mr. Peverell, if you would take a seat here and we will have you sorted.”

As Harlan walked over to the stool, Tom watched him, envious. The way he walked was graceful, self-assured, and spoke of power. His robes billowed behind him in a beautiful way, drawing the eye toward him and making him the centre of attention, as he no doubt wanted.

The hat was placed on his head and Tom, as well as the rest of the Hall, watched and waited. Everyone was curious, but Tom felt he was the most so. This was clearly a powerful—most likely influential—Pureblood, so why had he seemingly taken an interest in the lone Muggleborn in Slytherin? Maybe he had been looking at someone else at the table, and the angle has just made it look like it had been Tom to catch his attention.

That had to be it.

Tom had never garnered any attention on his own that was not negative. Unless someone was looking to torment him, he was invisible to everyone else. He had made his peace with that fact, mostly.

“Gryffindor!” Came the shout from the hat.

The tiny hope in Tom died a painful death, and Tom tried to deny to himself that it had even existed as he frowned down at his plate. What was the point of even hoping? The boy was a Pureblood, and none of them had ever wanted anything to do with Tom. Nothing Tom also wanted, that is. Harlan Peverell would be just like all the others—stuck-up, cruel, arrogant... Toxic.

He _could_, of course, be one of the Purebloods that felt Muggleborns were valuable, or at least not diseased, but he was in Gryffindor. That alone spelled doom for any possible friendship. The houses so rarely mixed.

Tom was mentally kicking himself for the hope that had bubbled up within him when the boy had seemed to notice him. He hadn’t had those kind of hopes since he had been a small boy, wanting nothing more than a family to want him, to take him away. To _love_ him. That hope had died when he was five, when he learned that the people were being warned away from him by the vile matron who thought Tom's abilities were the work of the devil, and warned other adults about his “abnormalities.”

Tom looked up again, but the Headmaster was already sitting back down, and the boy was gone. Tom, unable to resist the impulse to look for him, scanned the Gryffindor table. He told himself he wasn’t looking for the boy, just running his eyes over his fellow students, but when he found the boy, his breath hitched, and the lie died a sudden death inside him. Harlan Peverell was staring at him. Directly. He didn’t look away and was clearly assessing Tom. His eyes were eager, and he wasn’t trying to hide his stare at all. He was totally open about it.

It was a new experience for Tom, who was unused to being the object of such blatant attention that wasn’t explicitly harmful.

Tom, to his horror, felt his cheeks heat as his heart sped up against his wishes. He was _sure_, now, that he was looking at someone else. _Anyone_ else! He looked around again and... It was impossible. He was the only person sitting at that section of the table. He finally accepted that _he _was the object of the fixated attention, feeling his face growing hotter by the second, and dropped his eyes to his plate. They didn’t obey him for long, and he found himself raising them and staring right back. Awkwardly.

The other Gryffindors around Harlan were grinning, laughing, and talking to him. He tore his eyes away for brief moments to reply, then turned them right back to Tom. He seemed rapturous as he searched Tom's face, bruised as it was, and Tom had to wonder what he was seeing that fascinated him so. What about Tom was so pleasing to him? The odd staring match between them lasted the entirety of dinner, and Tom would later wonder how none of the other Slytherins noticed, though he would be thankful that they hadn’t.

When the food disappeared and the meal was over, Tom stayed in his seat as the rest of his house got up and departed. He wanted very badly to go to the library, both to continue his never-ending research and to escape the awkward situation. He knew he couldn’t just yet, though. During his first year, the other Slytherins had made sure he was aware that he was trash, and, according to them, “trash waits for its superiors to leave the table before it does.” So he sat, and waited.

He watched as the Purebloods rose, some gracefully and others less so, acting as though they were incapable of being informal even when they were being lazy or actually trying to appear sloppy. He then looked over at the Ravenclaw table as they rose, and compared the two.

Ravenclaw held a lot more Muggleborns, and none of them were graceful.

Tom had tried, so hard, to emulate his fellow Slytherins' graceful and dignified way of moving, their posture and bearing, but it was much harder than it looked. He knew he still hadn’t managed it. He probably never would.

Suddenly the grace of Harlan Peverell was called to mind. His eyes searched the Gryffindor table where the boy had been—where Tom had been staring for the last hour—and his heart sunk. He was gone. He sighed in disappointment. He mentally berated himself for looking away for even a moment, then had to do the same again for having such a pathetic thought.

He hadn’t noticed that most of the Gryffindors that hadn’t left were looking his way. He was deep in thought, wondering why he was so focused on the new student, so _aware_ of him, and didn’t notice someone was right beside him until he spoke a soft, “Hello.” He jumped a bit and his head snapped up to find the subject of his thoughts standing next to him, smiling beautifully down at him from where he stood at the end of the table.

“I apologize,” Harlan said, voice kind and warm, putting Tom at ease despite himself. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Tom just stared in shock—gaping actually, mouth open like a fish. To his horror, he could feel the blush returning to his face. He faintly hoped the ground would open up and swallow him.

“I came over to introduce myself,” Harlan continued, smile widening as Tom's mouth closed with an audible ‘click.' “I'm sure you heard already—as did everyone—but my name is Harlan Peverell.” He bowed slightly, just as any other Pureblooded wizard would have, but then held out his hand for a handshake, like a Muggleborn would. It was a strange mixture. “It’s nice to meet you...” He trailed off, looking at Tom expectantly. Hopefully.

Tom cleared his throat nervously, but gave a nod and took his hand. “Tom Riddle.” He supplied quietly, giving the other boy's hand a brief shake.

_This _has_ to be some sort of trick!_ His mind screamed.

“Tom...” Harlan said the name so softly, so _fondly_, that Tom felt his heart jump into his throat and lodge there, beating wildly. No one had _ever_ spoken his name that way! To be honest, no one spoke his first name at _all_. He was always either “Riddle,” from the Muggles, “you, Mudblood,” from his peers in Hogwarts, or “young Mr. Riddle,” from the teachers here. He could have wept for the kindness Harlan was showing him, if he had not minded making a scene like that. “Do you mind if I sit with you?” He asked.

Tom opened his mouth, intending to ask why. He both wanted to deny him and say yes, and the two urges were at war within him. He was far too nervous at the thought, but part of him didn’t care and craved his company. A voice behind him that he knew all too well stopped his words from escaping, which was probably fortunate, as he still wasn’t sure what they would have been.

“A Gryffindor from the Pureblood _Peverell _family, sit with a _Slytherin_? And a _Mudblood_, no less?”

Harlan's eyes snapped to the speaker, and Tom watched his friendly open expression morph into one of anger. Tom turned to see the oldest of the bullies that loved to torment him, Charles Hornby, and two others Tom barely paid any mind to. He stood there with a snide smirk on his face. He was Tom's oldest bully and would be graduating this year, but Tom knew that wouldn’t stop the bullies from harassing him next year.

“Leave that _filth_,” Charles' younger sister, Olive Hornby, demanded. Her tone changed from disgusted to flirtatious with her next words. “If you'd like to befriend a Slytherin, you should really choose someone more suitable for a Pureblood such as yourself, Mr. Peverell.”

Tom's entire face flamed bright red at the words, the _insinuation_ in them. He was humiliated daily, but to be spoken of so rudely in front of someone he had hoped truly wanted to befriend him, hopefully out of true motives... It was unbearable. He was sure Harlan would leave now, so when he looked up and saw the anger—no, the _fury_—on Harlan's face, he was shocked.

“I apologize, Tom.” He said, while glaring furiously at the others. “I was unaware that this area contained _filth_.” Tom's mind suffused with defeat as the others grinned maliciously. “Therefore...” He continued, finally looking down to meet his eyes again. He offered his hand to Tom chivalrously, whose spirits, as well as suspicions, rose drastically. “...I would like to ask you to join me for a chat elsewhere, _away_ from the filth.”

Tom, for all his failings, was no fool. He could not afford to leave the hall with a Gryffindor, especially one he had just met. If his intentions were anything but pure he would be digging his own grave to follow him blindly. Part of him desperately wanted to take the offered hand and the friendship on offer, but his inner Slytherin reminded him that he couldn’t. There had to be a catch.

He stood without taking the hand and left the hall, eyes firmly fixed on the floor.

_Looks like I'll be sleeping in the library again._ He thought sullenly.


	3. The Chase

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to change things a bit earlier. The present chapters will start looking very different now.

**This chapter is set before Harry is sent to the past. Chapters will rotate between past and present from here out.**

*****

The strip club was surprisingly high-class, Harry noted, looking around. He asked his wand to point him toward Neville again, but no matter how hard he looked, he could not find the other teen. The club featured both men and women dancers, and people were sitting at tables enjoying meals and conversation as well as the views on the stage.

Before Harry had decided his next move, a man—a waiter, judging by the menus he held and his provocative outfit—blocked Harry’s view of the stage—the only light in the room. “Hello,” He greeted Harry with a wide smile. “Welcome to Cerberus Cabaret.” He looked at something behind Harry. “Table for two?”

Harry frowned at that and checked behind himself.

Oh, hell.

“Yes,” Marvolo answered, nodding politely to the waiter, and came to stand beside Harry. “A table for two. Please lead the way.” He looked down at Harry and his haughty, serious expression became charming, though still rather high-and-mighty, Harry noted. His smile was contagious, though Harry refused to mirror it even so. He held out his elbow for Harry. “There are quite a few eyes on us. It would be better not to cause a scene.” He said quietly.

Harry gritted his teeth but knew he wouldn’t be able to see anything in this dim light just yet. He tried not to think too hard about what he was doing and took the man's arm and allowed himself to be led. The waiter stopped at a table near the middle of the room and started to place the menus on it, when Marvolo's voice stopped him.

“Take us to a private table and you will be provided a very,” he turned an arrogant yet strangely provocative look to Harry, “_generous_,” he emphasized, before looking back up to the waiter, “tip.”

_What was that about?_ Harry wondered.

He forced down the completely inappropriate arousal he was now feeling and took a deep breath in through his nose, trying to clear his head. Harry had no idea what he had meant by the display, but a more pressing concern was consuming his thoughts: why did he seem to be a magnet for trouble of various kinds? No matter what he did or where he went, he always found it somehow. It was as if, subconsciously, he wanted it.

They were led to a table and Marvolo ordered drinks, the name of which he didn’t catch, then when the waiter had left to get them, turned a look on him that was piercing. “I am going to ask once more, and please answer me this time: How old are you?”

Harry scowled. “I’m fifteen, not that I see why I should be _telling_ you this!”

Marvolo frowned. “No, you wouldn’t know yet. Can I write you? I _do_ know who you are.”

“Prove it.” Harry challenged. If he really _did_ know who he was, that could be a problem.

“You’re Harlan Peverell.” The man said in satisfaction. “Or at least that is the name you were using when I met you.”

Harry frowned. He honestly hadn’t thought up a name to use with his disguise, but that one worked well enough. So why not? “It’s an alias, but I’ll answer to it.”

Marvolo smiled. “I had suspected that was the case.” Their drinks arrived and Marvolo raised his glass and said, “Don’t be rude, now. I have a request of you, since you probably don’t remember me, being fifteen.”

Harry held in a sigh and took the glass, Marvolo stopping him when he went to cup the bottom of the drink.

“Hold it from the top. It will stay cooler longer that way, as your palm would heat it as you held it.” Marvolo instructed.

Harry took a sip of his drink, watching Marvolo do the same. It was fizzy and tasted of blueberry candy. It really was delicious, _amazingly_ so, but Harry knew he couldn’t indulge very much. He had no head for alcohol and was clearly not safe with this stranger. However, this new drink was definitely his favorite now.

“This is your first one.” Marvolo said in realization, sounding awed and inordinately pleased. “It is called Bleuet.” He supplied helpfully. Then he made an admission, perhaps born of his pleasure at the discovery. “I, too, am using an alias. You will know who I am soon enough.” He admitted.

“Why did you grab me?” Harry asked, changing the subject a bit.

“I _told_ you, I knew you. Can we exchange letters, so you can get to know me better? I will be truthful, and I have a post-forwarding service here, using Marvolo. All you need to do is address your letters to that name, and the post office here will receive them and forward them to me.” He smiled. “You’ll have to set up the same for yourself, using Harlan Peverell, or I’m afraid my post will never reach you. And that would _anger_ me. You don’t want that.”

Harry felt a shiver run down his spine and agreed with those words. He certainly _didn’t_ want this man angry with him.

“Can you give me until the next Hogsmeade weekend to do that? I’m afraid it’s a bit too late now, and I have to be careful not to sneak out too much.” Harry asked.

Marvolo chuckled. “Certainly, I can wait a short while. Write me and send a letter when you go to the post office and let me know I can reach you. The only people that will know who the post is really going to will be the people who work in the post office, and they are surprisingly discreet and sensible.”

“I’ll let you know. May I go now, or are you going to keep me here against my will?”

Marvolo frowned. “You won’t stay a while and chat?”

“I really can't. I was only here to look for someone.” He got up and made to leave when the man also stood and grabbed his arm.

“Remember to owl me. I will find you if you don't.” The man urgently told him, sounding desperate.

Harry knew better than to lie to someone that sounded like that. They could go mad easily when thwarted. “I'll—” He was grabbed by his other arm and yanked away from the stranger and turned to find out who else would dare to grab him like that and saw Neville.

“Neville!” He could nearly cry in relief. 

“Shhh!” Neville pushed his palm against Harry's mouth to silence him. “Let's go!” He urged.

Harry nodded his agreement.

The man’s fingers on his arm flexed impatiently. “I want to see you again. Now that I know you _are_ who I thought—” 

Neville yanked him away at that and began running for the door, dragging Harry with him.

They were weaving in and out of tables, other patrons and almost collided with a waiter once, but thankfully they made it to the door without stopping and Neville threw it open.

“Run!” He shouted over his shoulder as he took off, Harry right on his heels.

Harry obeyed, not sure why they were running, but assuming Neville had a good reason. He’d never had cause to doubt him before. Perhaps he knew something about the stranger that Harry didn’t, which, honestly, would not take much, as Harry knew precious little about the man himself. He caught up and he and Neville were keeping pace, because even though Harry was faster, he was loathed to leave his friend behind.

“What’s going on?” Harry asked, slightly breathless, but still confused.

“In there!” Neville pointed, and Harry followed the direction of his finger to see the currently darkened and closed building he knew was Honeydukes. It was always strange for Harry to remember that this place, while host to secret Pureblood meeting and high-class after parties at night, was actually a quaint, nice place during the daylight hours. It seriously boggled the mind sometimes.

Harry realized what Neville wanted to do—use the secret passage to get back to Hogwarts—and was about to warn him they didn’t want to reveal it to any enemies, when a spell missed Neville’s head by millimeters. They both glanced over their shoulders to see two men in black robes chasing them and Marvolo striding along quickly but still with an air of superiority behind them.

Harry had to spare a thought to wonder how he managed to look so perfectly poised and composed even now. Did the man _ever_ get ruffled? It seemed unlikely.

Harry changed his mind and decided Neville was right, expediency was the important thing here. “How do we get inside?” He asked.

Neville shook his head, then panted back, “I don’t know.”

Harry turned a shocked glance to his friend. “_What_?!” He shouted. “Then how do we—”

“I don’t _know_!” Another spell missed him by just a hair, and he cursed. “Why is it only me?!”

Harry shook his head this time. “I don’t know!” He shouted back. “Are they Death Eaters?” He chanced another glance and saw only that they had their hoods up, there were no identifying features on the robes or anything else to denote anything like that. He nearly tripped, though, and decided that he would not look behind him again while he was trying to run in the _goddamn _snow!

“I don’t know!” Neville shouted back, and Harry realized there was precious little they actually _knew_ tonight, as Neville continued, “What did you _do_?”

Nearly there, and Harry figured there was no other option but to try an Alohomora and hope that it worked. Heavens knew he didn't know any other unlocking charms! Surprisingly enough, it worked, and they went inside.

As soon as the door was shut, Neville headed for the passageway, but Harry grabbed him and threw him against the door. He leaned back against it as well. “We can’t go that way.” He explained. “It will lead them to Hogwarts. Too risky.”

He locked the door, not sure if it would help, but he had to do _something_ to calm the pounding of his heart, however futile it turned out to be.

“Well, why didn’t you _say_—” Neville began, but the lock clicked and both boys froze.

Harry quickly locked it again. The handle rattled, and Harry’s heart pounded some more.

Harry assumed the next step was for their adversaries to just blast through the door, but they didn’t. Why was that, he wondered.

But Marvolo’s voice sounded, and what he said quickly explained why they weren’t being covered in debris. “Find another way! You will _not_ harm him.”

Neville and Harry shared looks born of both fear and confusion as they tried to figure out how they were getting out of this situation. Harry didn’t have his cloak, not that he would want to point out to the other wizards that he had one if he _had_ brought it along.

“Disillusionment charms!” Neville whispered. He sounded excited.

“Brilliant!” Harry replied, grinning madly.

The both cast their charms and the windows shattered as they headed for the cellar. Glass was everywhere, and Harry quickly cast a silencing charm over their feet to stop the crunching of glass underfoot. He gripped Neville’s arm and they both ran for the cellar together.

Just as they closed the hatch to the cellar, they saw the two men enter through windows on the sides of the shop while Marvolo simply opened the front door. They had decided to surround them.

Once they had gotten far enough away to ensure they wouldn’t be heard, Harry asked Neville, “Why were you being chased by those men?”

Neville snorted. “_I_ wasn’t being chased. _You_ were.” He corrected Harry.

“What are you _talking_ about?! I had never _seen_ those men before!” Harry denied.

“The man _you were with_ was with them. And also, Harry, he’s someone you don’t want to get mixed up with. I’ve seen him hanging around with Lucius Malfoy and other Death Eaters before, and when he talks, _they listen_. He’s probably a high-ranking Death Eater, maybe even you-know-who’s right-hand man.” Neville said.

“Yeah, but _he_ wasn’t firing spells at us, the other two were! In fact, _he_ said not to harm us!”

“And that’s probably the only reason we got away.” Neville pointed out. “But he _did_ order them to fire at us—or, well, _me_.”

“You’re right.” Harry muttered. “Maybe… Maybe we should…” He sighed heavily, “Stay inside? At least for the rest of the year, at night. We should be okay during Hogsmeade weekends, but not late at night.”

“How did he find out you were Harry Potter?” Neville asked.

“He didn’t.” Harry said. “He called me _Harlan Peverell_.” He bit his lip. “I did tell him that wasn’t my real name.”

Neville shook his head. “Not smart.”

“I know. But he shouldn’t be a problem. Unless I don’t keep my word and set up an account at the post office to contact him with. Under the fake name.” Harry added.

Neville nodded. “Well, back to bed, I suppose. I’ll have to let my boyfriend know I can’t visit him for a while. Hopefully, he’ll take it well.” He said.

“Sorry.” Harry muttered.

“Not only your fault. It was bound to happen sooner or later.” Neville told him.


End file.
